


Ghosts in the Attic

by cranesmuir_witch



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Cussing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7419565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranesmuir_witch/pseuds/cranesmuir_witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I tried out for a mod position on tumblr's imagineclaireandjamie and was given two prompts to write. (I also moved from Colorado to Michigan while I was writing so I'm pretty proud of what I wrote!) I didn't get it but the people who did are amazing. RedStarFiction posted their versions of the prompts and it spurred me to do the same since they're so different! Thank you also to westerhos who urged me to do the same. (PROMPT #2) Imagine Claire in 1948 (or after) finds one of the old missing posters of herself and/or the sketch of Jamie, the ghost Frank saw outside the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

With her daughter at a slumber party for the evening and her constantly wayward husband nowhere in sight, Claire decided to attack the stack of boxes in the attic, still untouched from the transatlantic move years before. 

Since arriving in the States, she had tried her best to put those years behind her but with Bree getting older, it was getting more difficult. She couldn’t help but speculate what the dynamic would be between father and daughter. The thought left a palpable sadness in her core that stubbornly refused to fade despite her genuine gratitude for the much wanted child.

She grabbed the torch from the hall closet, trudged up several flights of stairs and flung open the door to the darkened attic. It really wasn’t something she necessarily wanted to be doing on a Saturday night but some sense of closure was needed. The rational part of her could accept that Jamie and everyone she knew had been gone for centuries, long gone even before she was born. Typically the biggest inner conflict arose when she was asleep, her body betraying that analytical aspect of her psyche - when she dreamed she could still feel his warmth, his gentle touch on her body like it was moments ago. It was her heart, though, the one part of her that had bore the brunt of the pain. It had been torn from her when she fulfilled her promise and passed through the stones at Crag Na Dun again. Thankfully, a little piece was given back when she heard Brianna’s first cry. 

“Oh, smudge” she whispered. “If only you knew how much he loved and wanted you. Some day.”

After a few deep, steadying breaths Claire brought herself back to the task before her. She smacked the torch a few times and it flickered on, cutting a swath of yellow light through the pitch black to aid her search. She began to root around for the boxes in question, which, of course, were most likely in the farthest corner with the most dust. Before she reached her intended destination an unopened parcel with her name on it caught her eye. It was addressed to herself from someone in Scotland. 

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!

More specifically one Mrs. Graham from Inverness. The torch fell with a loud thud, ricocheting the beams from floor to ceiling creating a strobing effect. 

“Damn it, Beauchamp!” she chided herself, “It's a box, not a bloody snake!”

She picked up the discarded object again to lean it comfortably up against the wall. Now she needed to investigate the parcel in question before the itch in the back of her head spontaneously combusted.

After fumbling through her pockets to find something to break the seal, the familiar jingle of keys brought a modest smile to her face. It would just be a few short minutes until the several hundred questions she had bouncing around her head could be answered. Most importantly, why had Frank hidden it and kept it after all these years? He could have easily burned it with the garbage to get rid of the evidence, not that tidying up behind himself after he made a mess was his area of expertise. 

Following several deliberate swipes, the thick tape gave way with ease and the door key was returned to her pocket. Claire hastily grabbed the light from where it was positioned, unsure of what she’d find before her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust but when they did, a familiar sight made them go wide and her stomach drop - her moss colored woollen dress. But how was that possible? She saw Frank burning the clothes she wore that day, didn't she? It was genuinely a blank spot in her memory. As a doctor, she knew it was most likely she was still suffering from acute shock at that point. It would make sense that the awareness of the first week back was hazy, a jumble of every emotion possible but very little else.

“It’s still too loud here.” she grumbled. “And there’s always another fucking war.”

She took several slow and calculated breaths, hoping the action would help to calm her nervousness. Why would the mere sight of something so innocuous from her recent past cause her hands to tremble uncontrollably? It made no sense!

_You wore it when you walked through the stones. You wore it at Culloden. You wore it when you realized you were pregnant again.You wore it the last time you told him you loved him._

She disregarded her inner scolding and swiftly removed the folded dress from the box to hold it close. Everything about it felt the way she remembered - the weight of it, the roughness of the wool as well as the smell. The smell alone catapulted all the visceral memories back to her. For so many years she had forced herself to push those sensory remembrances to the back of her mind but with one sniff it had all returned. It felt like a betrayal.

She groaned loudly in response to the intrusion, however, the odd sound of paper crinkling somewhere nearby made her halt everything. 

A yellowed piece of wrinkled paper fluttered to the floor and fell on her feet. Flipping it over as she picked it up, she found it was a police sketch artist’s rendering of a suspicious man wanted in Inverness about the time she went missing. She shone the light a little closer to see the man’s face only to have a very familiar face staring back at her.

“Jamie? But how?” 

_Alright. Think, Claire! Think! What did the innkeeper in Inverness say about spirits? When Frank and I registered at the inn, she told us that there was blood on the houses’ doorway because it was Samhain and Samhain is when ghosts can walk freely and the blood was there to protect the people who lived there. So if that was possible like I know time travel is possible…_

She giggled madly, “Travelling back and forth through time I can abide by, but wandering the Earth after death? Sorry! That's just out of the realm of possibility.”

 _Alright then, enough of that! Let’s get down to brass tacks. Look at his face. He does look quite a bit older than when I left so perhaps he did survive Culloden? I wish I could believe he lived out the life of a Laird and died as an old man in his sleep but I know him far too well. He wanted to die defending his country and his Highland way of life._

That was the precise moment Claire Beauchamp Fraser decided that she was going to find the answer to the question she promised Frank she'd never ask-- What happened to her husband?


End file.
